


Paying a witcher’s due

by Mallorn



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Basically a reader-fic but written in 3rd person, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Geralt on potions, Miscommunication, POV Alternating, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Up against a tree, obligatory bath scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 04:15:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26467060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mallorn/pseuds/Mallorn
Summary: Geralt’s good heart is his weakness. He should have learnt by now never to accept payment in kind, and especially not from lonely women who don’t know what’s good for them.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader
Kudos: 136
Collections: Explicit Stories





	Paying a witcher’s due

**Author's Note:**

> Please enjoy this small contribution to the fandom!
> 
> Heartfelt thanks to Cassandra1 for a brilliant beta job<3

It’s another run-down village, another shack of a house that calls itself an inn despite being hardly large enough for enough rooms to feed the owner. On the other hand, there’s no reason to believe more than a traveller or two at a time would choose to stop here. Geralt wouldn’t have either, if not for the torn, yellowed notice on the board outside.

The place is half deserted; the main room occupied only by what looks like a couple of local drunks. They barely give him a glance at first, then back up against the wall, eyes wide with fright. Good. He doesn’t need any trouble. As soon as his gaze falls on the innkeeper, she lets go of the rag she uses to polish the counter and rushes towards him. He quirks an eyebrow.

“Oh, sweet Melitele,” she exclaims, wringing her hands and stopping right in front of him. Her words are seemingly only the beginning of a long string of utterings he’d better stop.

“What do you need a witcher for?”

“Oh gods, thank you, sir, finally, we’ve waited so long – nobody ever comes this way, that notice’s been out there for months – ”

“Quiet, woman. I said for what do you need me?”

She wipes her hands on her apron and swallows, apparently in preparation for another tirade. “There’s this – in the forest, we used to get everything from there, this was a nice, tidy place, you’d better believe it, it certainly doesn’t look like it now, does it –”

He growls, and immediately regrets it. The woman seems to shrink an inch and there’s no way she’ll tell him the full truth now. Not what he needs. Only what she thinks he wants to hear.

“Fuck.” He grits his teeth. This is exactly why he hates interacting with humans. If only there was a way for him to accept contracts without having to go through this impossible dance!

“I’m sorry, sir.”

He sighs. She isn’t that bad, really. Respectful, even. Doesn’t look like she’ll chase him out. “Fine,” he rasps, making an effort to look unthreatening. “Tell me. In fewer words, if you can.”

“There’s something in the forest that kills people.” She snaps her mouth shut.

“Hm.” Could be almost anything. “Any sounds? Smells? What about remains?”

“None, sir. In the beginning – we tried looking for them, but there never was anything, and those that went further in disappeared, too. That forest is cursed, it is.”

“I’ll have a look in the morning.” He glances at an alcove in the back of the room. “You serve food here? Ale?”

“Of course, sir. Just make yourself comfortable.” 

He nods and starts to make his way towards the table in the corner. The way she swarms around him, nervous to please, is annoying, but not entirely objectionable. He could do without the fluttering hands. It’s a week since he bathed, but it’s not like there are flies around him.

The food is surprisingly good, and the ale is cold. “It’s good,” he tells her between bites, and then once more when she still seems reluctant to leave him alone.

“There’s the question about your fee, sir,” she says in a low voice, wringing her hands again.

“What about it?” He makes no effort to hide his annoyance. Clearly there’s no riches to be gained from a contract in this dump, but fuck if he’d work for free. At least, the villagers don’t need to know he would. Bad for business.

“We’ve no alderman, sir, there’s no reward gathered among the villagers.”

“So, pay me yourself.” He takes another swig from the tankard. The ale isn’t bad at all.

She blanches, but to her credit, she quickly finds her wits. Must have expected this turn of events, then. He’s of a mind to tell her he’ll accept free lodging as payment before she can even make the offer. This won’t be the first time, nor the last. A decent night’s sleep and he’ll be ready to deal with their monster, and then he’ll be off to riper feeding grounds. Another ale first, perhaps.

“I can offer you my best room for the night, sir, this meal and another in the morning, as much ale as you’d like –”

“A bath.”

She nods. “Of course, sir.” She eyes him expectantly, waiting for him to close the deal.

“No coin?”

She takes a little too long to answer. “I can warm your bed,” she finally adds, voice much too quiet for comfort.

“That won’t be necessary.”

The shadow of disappointment that darkens her face, and the sour smell that comes with it, is a surprise. He could have sworn she wanted nothing to do with him in that way, and now it looks like he’s just turned down a free lay. Those are few and far between even without him being picky. He grimaces, clenching his fist and holding back the string of curses on his tongue.

“Hm,” he says. “You may attend me in the bath, if that is your wish.”

“Of course, sir Witcher.”

“It’s Geralt.”

“Geralt. Would you like another ale?”

She’s happy now, relieved, whether to be rid of the monster soon or just at the prospect of getting to see him strip. He’ll never understand humans.

* * *

Seeing the witcher up close, she very nearly regrets accepting even his compromise. He’s obviously a very well-built man and well worth looking at, but those _eyes_. Even with his face unmarred by his initial scowl, well-fed and probably a little tipsy from downing about a bucket of potent ale, he’s scary looking enough to quench the sparks of heat that pool in her belly at the sight of him climbing into the tub. Thank Melitele he didn’t take her up on her initial offer! Now, all she needs to do is ignore his weird gaze and scrub him off, it’s no big deal. She even has a sponge, doesn’t need to touch him at all. Even if she wouldn’t mind it so much. Touching him. Seeing how he’d react to her hands stroking all over those strong shoulders, his back, his chest –

She flinches at the sudden movement as he raises his head. The shiver of fear that runs down her spine is mingled with lust and she turns away, masking her heated cheeks by pretending to search for a bar of soap. She wants nothing more than to bolt from the room, and yet she can’t. She promised.

“You don’t need to be here,” he says. His voice is slow, tired.

“Don’t be silly, sir,” she chirps with more cheerfulness than she is feeling. “Geralt, I mean. Of course I do. I’ll assist you with your bath, like I said I would.”

He sighs. “Doesn’t matter if you leave. I’ll do my job anyway.”

“And I will fulfil my end of the deal.”

“Stop trembling, woman!” He shakes his head and looks up at her, exasperated. “I can’t relax if you’re afraid of me.”

“Really?”

She drops the sponge and rubs his shoulders with her hands. Hard muscles slowly relax and he leans into her touch. She spends much longer than needed on his broad back, and then on his hair, as luscious as a girl’s. Rather wasted on a man, it ought to soften his features, but instead it seems to draw attention to his angular, masculine face.

His arms rest on the edges of the tub, hands still but for the occasional tapping against the side of it. She’s found the sponge again, regretfully, she wouldn’t mind seeing how his nipples, pink and impossibly tiny, would react to her fingertips. Sparse chest hair thickens as it trails down his abdomen. Does he mean for her to –

“Go on,” he says with a smirk, nodding towards the water between his legs.

“Naturally,” she responds as coolly as she can manage. For all his unusual features, he really has nothing she hasn’t seen before.

Averting her eyes, she brings the sponge around his groin, resolutely lifting any _parts_ that need moving for her to do her job properly. It’s a little disappointing that he’s still soft.

His feet are ticklish. Any lingering trace of fear vanishes at that notion. They are large and gnarled, bone and tendons clearly visible under scarred skin. Half a nail is missing from his large toe, but they’re all there, which is almost a miracle. At first, when she touches the soft arch underneath, he flinches.

“Be still,” she tells him.

She pulls the foot towards herself, planting it firmly in her lap, the sole resting against her belly. He relaxes, allows her to stroke his skin. It must be a long time since anyone was gentle with him. His breathing slows, and when she lifts his other foot into her lap, his eyelids flutter and he regards her with something akin to wonder.

Then it’s suddenly over.

“Thank you,” he says, jaw clenched as if it hurts to say it. “Now, leave me.”

“You’re welcome,” she replies, mechanically. Angry at him for dismissing her so summarily despite her efforts, and at herself for thinking it could be any different. He’s no interest in her – he made that clear already from the start, when she embarrassed herself by offering something she shouldn’t have. Something she ought to feel relieved not to have to provide. It still stings that he didn’t accept. 

* * *

At first, he’s prepared to chase her from the room. She seemed so eager before, and now, the stench of fear fouls the air to the point of ruining his bath. The water’s hot enough, for once, and he’s had the first full meal in a week, and there’s a promise of soft hands in his hair and maybe more – gods! Why didn’t he agree to bed her? The answer is right there: Because she’s afraid. Because she doesn’t even want him as an odd trophy or for any of the other reasons that he can accept. As much as he detests being called ‘butcher’, he’ll never give them a reason to name him a rapist.

“Go,” he tells her. “I’ll manage.”

Why is it people think he’ll go back on his word if they irk him the slightest? The answer is obvious. Because that is what they themselves do. Heck, half of the time they refuse to pay him even when he fulfils the contract to the letter.

Breathing slowly, on the verge of slipping into meditation, he wills himself not to react to any of her ministrations. She’s calmer now, no longer reluctant to touch him.

Her hands on his shoulders and back are expected. Good. Safe. The way she handles his cock is brave rather than arousing; she clearly has no interest in that, and why should she? Her only reason to want to bed him is to pay for a service.

’Don’t fucking sell yourself for this rat’s nest of a village.’ That’s what he thought when she made the offer. Now he knows he’s a raging lunatic for turning her down.

Her belly is soft against the sole of his foot. Were he to wriggle his toes, they’d brush against the underside of her breasts. That would make her jump and quit touching him, so he doesn’t, even if the idea is tempting. She looks deep in concentration; perhaps if he just pushed a little, she wouldn’t notice. Or if he’d grind his heel just a fraction, press it deeper down between her thighs. Would she open her legs then, part them and let him touch her there? He’d pet her gently with his fingertips, and if she allowed it, he’d use his mouth and taste her, lick her and fuck her with his fingers until she begged. Maybe she’d let him. More likely, she’d clamp her thighs shut and that would be the end of that.

She no longer reeks of fear.

It’s a long time since it was this difficult to meditate.

* * *

At night, her longing gets worse. It’s ages since she wanted a man, and even longer since a decent possibility presented itself. The witcher would have been the perfect prospect. Just a quick tumble, enough to quench her thirst, and he’d be gone. No risk of losing her independence or getting with child.

He denied her. That detail seems unimportant as she imagines his hands, no longer curled around the edges of a bathtub, but around her wrists as he pushes into her frantically, all that brutal strength centred on chasing pleasure, not a thought about the rattling bed, or of anyone hearing her moans of abandon. He’d growl, low in his throat, or give a loud grunt as he comes, and she’d see what those strange eyes look like when he’s sated. But before that, he’d seduce her with that raspy voice, whispering into her ear just what he’d like to do to her, and when they can finally be alone, he’ll carry her up those rickety stairs, and then –

Her own fingers aren’t nearly enough, but they have to do, this night as so many others. She falls asleep with the image of the witcher at the forefront of her thoughts.

* * *

In the morning, Geralt hurries to get ready. Gathers his few belongings and carries them down to the main room as the first light seeps through the shutters. There’s no use in lingering. The innkeeper may have been in his thoughts during the night, as a brief itch, nothing he couldn’t take care of himself. There’s no use in laying eyes on her again, for the momentary relief it might bring it will only serve to needlessly feed the ache of loneliness that settles on him sometimes on the Path. It’s nothing new, he’ll deal with it as he always has. He’s no weakling. He’ll find a brothel in the next town and it will sustain him until the next opportunity presents itself. Casting moony eyes on her will achieve nothing. Better to remove himself from her presence.

He hardly looks up as the bowl of porridge is placed on the table without a word. The ale is weaker this morning – that is how long the promises lasted this time. He doesn’t make a fuss about it. Nobody thanks a witcher once the monster is gone, and few send him off as heartily as he was met the day before. He’s grateful for what he gets. The anger seething in him is his penance for denying destiny, nothing he needs to spill for the world to see. He is capable of so much violence, and not for the first time, he’s looking forward to the fight. To do what he’s made for, not sit around pestering the air for decent folk.

“I hope you slept well?”

Fuck. It’s her, and her voice sounds as if she cares. It’s deceit, and he’s nearly falling for it. He grunts.

“Would you like some bread?”

He doesn’t answer that. He would, but it’s not as anyone’s interested in small talk with him. It’s just a way to harass him, to make him pack up and leave the sooner. He’s about to do that, half on his feet, when the smell of fresh bread hits his nostrils. There are two thick slices on the plate held in front of him, generously buttered, some of it melted and dripping down the crust. One is covered with cheese, and the other has a sprinkling of salted pork, glistening with fat. He catches the wrist holding the plate, resolutely lowering it towards the table.

Her breath catches and she lets go of the plate.

Immediately, he releases her. This time he has to look up, expecting to have to placate her, to apologize for his manners, to explain. He hates that. It’s much easier when it’s just him and Roach. Or Eskel. But now it’s this woman, the one he could have slept with if he wasn’t such an idiot. And she’s fucking smiling at him. He’d better leave fast.

“Sorry,” he mutters and devours the first slice in one bite without looking at her. The other one, he makes an effort to savour, as much as possible when she’s standing there. Even wiping his mouth is uncomfortable under that kind of scrutiny. What else does she need of him? “I’ll slay your monster,” he says as he rises.

“Thank you,” she replies, staring at him as if she planned to commit his ugly face to memory. “Is there anything else I can do to help? More ale? We do serve it a bit watered in the morning, you see, the beginning of the day and all –”

“No,” he grunts.

“Perhaps afterwards, you’d like another bath? More to eat? Or I could alert the healer that her services may be needed –”

“Not coming back,” he says and stares her in the eye, satisfied to see her reaction. She needs to stay away from him. Not remind him of his lousy choices. “No use returning,” he repeats. “Seeing that I’ve been paid already, there’s no reason to.”

“But,” she hesitates, “how will I know? That the beast is dead, that –”

“That I didn’t just scamper off without doing my duty?” He grits his teeth. He doesn’t have time for this. “You should have thought about that before, and perhaps offered me the coin I asked for.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have insulted your honour.”

He grumbles at that, collects his saddle bags and makes sure not to look at her when he passes her. The smell of her lingers in his nostrils until he reaches the stables; strangely sweet and as tempting as butter on warm bread. 

* * *

She watches how he wolfs down the bread, how his tongue chases the melted butter that threatens to fall. He even picks the crumbs from the plate. Such hunger; she’d fetch him another serving if she wasn’t sure he’d take the moment to run. His grumpiness is endearing, there’s no way he can frighten her now, not when she knows what he looks like at ease. Her wrist still tingles where he held it. She’ll examine it later, see if there’s any scent of him lingering, anything to complement the image of him in her head.

There’s no reason to expect polite small talk, but it’s still a disappointment to see him go so soon. She wants to tell him how grateful she is, how much she wishes for him to return after completing his work, if only so she can feed him again. She’d offer so much more if there was even a tiny chance of success. Instead, she takes a step back to let him pass, of course she does. Anything else is impossible when he is standing there, fully armed once more, feet shuffling, eyes glancing towards the exit. He is clearly anxious to leave and every word she says will only annoy him.

She didn’t mean to insult him, all she wanted to ask was how they’d know that his work was done, other than waiting for time to show the outcome. Geralt made perfectly clear that he would solve the village’s problem, or perish in the process, and either way he needs no assistance. When he’s done, the forest will either be safe, or not.

The rest of the morning, there’s only one thing in her head – to see him again. To get another chance, to show him how much she wants, how willing she is to satiate his other hunger, and get her own stilled in return.

It is wrong to follow him. And yet, she can’t send him to his death without caring. He had shown her great generosity in taking on her cause with such meagre pay. She doesn’t question his competence – whatever goes against a witcher will surely be dead in the blink of an eye – and yet, there are other stories, too. Of gruesome wounds, festering poison, even entire villages wiped out by a vengeful beast because they dared send for help.

She waits the better part of an hour and then she leaves, covering the distance to the forest at a quick trot. She must know. Not because of the unexpected gentleness of his battle-hardened hands, and certainly not for the way his golden eyes burned just before his jaw went slack with wonder. There is a perfectly mundane reason. If the worst happens, someone needs to collect the witcher’s possessions. One can’t let a horse go to waste. She almost believes herself.

At first, she stands anxiously peering into the forest, then she takes to pacing along its edge, listening for sounds of battle. There is nothing, the only sound coming from the mare grazing, fully at ease. The animal should know, shouldn’t it? If its master had met some gruesome death, there would be a sign of it, wouldn’t there?

When the sun is at its peak, she begins to berate her foolishness, coming out here with neither food nor water. A nearby stream solves the most pressing matter, but still. She ought to have realized it could take time, she ought to have prepared. But what if he isn’t coming at all?

She peers into the trees looking for a flicker of white hair, listening for heavy boots, and yet she is wholly unprepared for the sight that meets her when he finally emerges, staring wild-eyed like a spooked horse, jaw set, silver sword gleaming white in the sharp sunlight. There is no blood on it, and he appears unharmed, but something is odd about his eyes. He strides with a purpose, staring straight ahead as if he doesn’t even register her presence, and then he suddenly bellows: “Run!”

Flinching, she stares in horror towards the edge of the forest, looking for the terror that will soon emerge from there to pounce on him. The is nothing, not a branch moves.

“From me,” he shouts and sheathes the sword. “Run!”

“Is it –”

“Your monster is gone.”

“What was –”

“It’s gone,” he pants. “That’s all you need to know. Believe me.”

She nods. “I see. Thank you. But you seem – I want to help.”

He shakes his head. “Go now, before it’s too late.”

“I said I want to help. I know witchers have needs. After –”

The growl that meets her is full of need. He begins to stalk again, this time directing his gaze at her. His eyes are black, fey as if he is under some enchantment, and yet she isn’t afraid of him. Rather, that focused attention fills her with need. She backs away, slowly, until he has her pressed up against a tree.

“Also,” she whispers, “it seems too late to run now.”

His armour is stiff against her front. It’s dirty, and more worn than she noticed before. Some of the studs are missing from it and there are ugly repairs and old tears. New scratch marks, too. His eyes are almost black now, only a slit of yellow surrounding them. Somehow, that makes him look more normal. His evident arousal is also familiar. His breathing is slow, his chest heaving powerfully against her quick, shallow gulps of air. She wants this so much, wants him, and when she rises on tiptoes, she can almost press herself against him, right there.

A large hand grabs her backside and she slides up, the rough bark of the oak catching, making her blouse ride up in the back. Another hand slips in from the front; he swears and uses his teeth to pull off the glove. Vaguely she sees it fly through the air, hears how it lands heavily on the ground. His hand is almost hesitant when it creeps over her front again, calloused fingers against her stomach, easing underneath the blouse.

“Yes,” she breathes. “Yes. Please.”

He curls his lip in a sinister grin and pushes her further up, slanting his hips against hers. The hand covers her breast, briefly, then the fabric is tugged up and his neck bends and his mouth is on her nipple.

She cries out and holds on to his shoulders, presses his head towards her. So long, so good, so long since she was with anyone she wanted this much and it feels so –

His mouth comes up again, this time nosing hungrily against her throat, her jaw, her mouth and she kisses him. Daintily at first, like the nice woman she is, never mind the situation. Closed mouth, small kisses, tasting him, feeling his long lashes against her cheek. It seems to slow him a little. She runs her fingers through his hair, that she washed yesterday and now it’s all tangled again and there are blotches of something slimy in it and she doesn’t care. If anything, it emboldens her. The kissing turns filthy, with lots of tongue and she moans for more. He is silent, but for a low growl deep in his throat that ought to sound threatening but makes her clench in anticipation. His fingertips are there now, feeling how soaked she is. Is that … is he laughing? His hand works frenetically on his trousers and then she feels him against her, head sliding up her folds before he breaches her.

She’s the one laughing now, madly, cackling like a mindless crone. The sheer energy with which he drives into her is intoxicating. She feels wanted and blessed and free, drunk on his lust and egged on by his grunts to let him hear just what he’s doing to her.

Gradually, the ashen quality of his skin gives way to pallor, the dark veins receding until he looks less other worldly and more the expected tired of any working man. His gaze seems to clear; the critical intensity from the morning returns. Next, his entire expression changes and he goes from satiated bliss to crestfallen in the blink of an eye. The kiss she aims for his forehead ends up in the air when he backs away from her and she staggers to find her footing.

“Geralt? That was the best –” Why would he do that, step away so suddenly after what they just shared? “Are you injured? Oh what have I – please let me see.”

* * *

Geralt sinks to his knees in shame, staring at the ground. He’s betrayed everything, broken each and every one of the rules he set in place to protect others. If he believed in destiny, it would be his to hurt all who dared trust him. To protect, that is his task. And now –

“I’m fine,” he snarls at her attempts to check him over for injuries. He cannot bear any kindness, not ever, certainly not now. Not when – 

“Come back to the inn with me.” Her voice is pleading, mild. “I want to thank you.”

“For what?” He gestures to the tree without looking up. “I practically forced you.”

“You didn’t. I was very much willing, I bet your witcher senses could tell.”

He could, and it didn’t take a witcher for it. The fucking crazy wench had even laughed at his manhandling her, flooding his senses with the honey sweet scent of her desire and filling him with as much happiness as it was his lot ever to feel. That doesn’t change the fact that, in that moment when he emerged from the forest, lack of enthusiastic responses wouldn’t have been enough to stop him. Animal. Butcher. Not any better than the monsters he is hired to slay.

“I would have done it anyway,” he spits, and then adds in a softer voice, “Some potions… they lower inhibitions.” Melitele knows why he’s even trying to explain.

“I rather hoped they would.” He whips his head up. “Listen,” she continues, still in that maddening, kind voice. She’s still looking at him with concern, not fear. “I shouldn’t say this, but I didn’t follow you with noble intentions to care for your wounds or anything like that.”

He doesn’t answer.

“I followed you because I was attracted to you, almost from the start. I hoped – I was hurt when you declined, and I wanted you so much. I – I didn’t mean to use you.”

He smirks at that.

“Or, I did,” she stutters, wringing her hands, “but I thought you’d like it. As you seemed to do. It wasn’t all bad, was it? I’m sorry, I’ve ruined everything.”

She covers her face with her hands and the wave of remorse that hits him is brutal. He regards her in wonder, still struggling to wrap his mind around what she’s trying to tell him. A woman luring him into bed because she _wanted_ him?

“You were afraid,” he states calmly. “Yesterday.” He’d never touch anyone unwilling, not when in his right mind. So, he’d said no. 

“At first, I was, yes.” She uncovers her face and takes a step closer. “After the bath I wasn’t. You could have had me then.”

“Fuck!” He beats his fist into the ground.

Tentatively, she reaches for him, pats his shoulder, and then, his face is pressed into her soft, warm belly, and she’s still smelling of good sex and honey, and when his arms close around her and his hand just happens to grab at her ass, she gives a laugh.

“Please come with me,” she says with her hands in his hair, “allow me to apologize for this mess. I’ll make it up to you.”

“How?” He’d settle for stew and ale, and just half a slice of buttered bread, but he can’t help _hoping_.

“I thought,” she says carefully while taking a step back, “maybe we could repeat last night? Without the being afraid part?”

He mulls over it while he rises, and then bends to pick up his glove from the ground.

“You want to stay after the bath.” He doesn’t usually have to look at what he’s doing but putting on the glove requires attention.

“I do. I mean, the choice is yours, of course, and I promise I won’t be offended if you say no, but, I would very much like to.”

“Hmm.”

“Come along, then. What are you waiting for?”

Her eager voice is the only encouragement he needs.


End file.
